


monsters

by followsrabbit



Category: Sense8 (TV)
Genre: Drabble, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 10:17:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4518078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/followsrabbit/pseuds/followsrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kala may have been discovered, but Wolfgang won’t let her be destroyed. Drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	monsters

He feels that they’ve taken her before he knows it.  And that’s – that’s fucking peculiar.  Feelings are blood sucking your fingertips, too slippery to trust.  Wolfgang has never been a scholar, always more likely to miss class than than to study a chalkboard, but he’ll bet on facts over faith every time.

Facts.  Simple.  Clear.  Tangible. 

(She is none of these things.)

She is memories of sunlight, echoes of prayers, and ghosts of soft fingernails grazing his jaw. She should be at least half of the reason he stops by the pub that night, but his fucked up life offers plenty of fucked up competition. Felix and his father and his uncle and Steiner and his own two hands. An inevitable Hindu wedding ceremony is just one more round of ammunition. Bogdanow men have always carried plenty.

Hard fists and not-hard-enough shots, those are his. He gulps them, breathes them, is them. The skid mark of panic that chokes his next sip -- that tastes different.  His mouth pools with sugar and sunlight, too warm, too rich, and too damn good for Berlin.

He’s been blocking her since Iceland, best he can. With alcohol pealing the paint off his thoughts, it’s easier to let it peal her away as well; the split knuckle impression left by her creased forehead and dripping eyes. But now, even with a gallery of empty glasses sweating in front of him, Wolfgang feels her.  Feels her as loud as a scream and as long as its echo.

That’s all it takes, really.

* * *

“ _Deja vu all over again_ ,” Nomi’s voice stretches wry and wiry across his pulsing heartbeat thoughts. “ _We can’t keep going through this_.”

It’s a stupid thing to say.  Wolfgang’s jaw bristles.  It’s more stupid by far to ask what she means – because he’s no idiot, because he can make a fucking inference, because he’s more connected to her than anyone, even with his brain foggy enough to stall air traffic – but he does anyway.  To be sure. To be wrong.  

“What is this?” he says, almost like his father woulds spat his demands for another beer.  Less slurred.  More daggers lining his throat.

“ _They found her_.”

The _how_ is a blur of company wide testing and suckered fiancees.

”Ms. Dandekar is very sick,” a man with a white lab coat, pale skin, and a western accent tells Rajan, and he rushes to play the devoted partner, to pay for whatever need be for whatever surgery.

”Hush, my love,” Rajan pillows a palm across her forehead when Kala protests through a haze of drugs.  “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

And she’s locked up.  

And they’re coming.  

Wolfgang’s pale knuckles turn paler.

That’s all it takes, really.

* * *

And he’s driving to the airport, with one boot screaming against the gas pedal of the first car he could find, both hands raging white around the steering wheel, and seven minds only half aware of the traffic hazy and honking around him.  He’s speeding and jerking, and has neither a flight schedule nor a ticket, but he’ll kidnap a pilot, steal a plane, and crash-land it in Mumbai by fucking gunpoint before he spends another night restless in Berlin, because he can barely feel her, because he’s getting to India, because he’ll destroy anything and everything before he lets them destroy her _._

_Kala._

He’s never said her name.  It would feel too much like a prayer, and Wolfgang swore years ago – recitals and black eyes and bullets ago – that he’d never pray again, but, fuck, he can’t stop mumbling it now.

“Kala,“ his teeth grind into his wire-tense lip.  “Kala,” his fingernails claw against dark leather.  “Kala,” he inhales, and “Kala” he breathes out.   _Kala, I’m coming._

* * *

She’s drugged asleep when he boards his flight, but he’s with her; always with her, seesawing his palm lines towards her wrist, his mouth towards her temple, always freezing a nudge away.

_“And so am I,”_ he’d told her, and it’s still true.

He doesn’t touch her, not even through the psycellium.

* * *

The door clicks open, and her eyes with it.  He’s still sitting hundreds of miles away, hundreds of feet above the ground, with a locked spine.

“Help me,” she murmurs. “Please.”

Wolfgang doesn’t hesitate before melting his fist through hers.  Only grins.

He’s coming.  He’s already there.  He’ll show them a monster.


End file.
